i hate you, we should get married.
i hate the way you wear your clothes; i hate the clothes themselves. how dreadful, and absolutely vile. and i know you feel the same – you’re always discussing the fashion you aspire to adopt, yet never do. so, let’s go shopping tomorrow. allow me to help you find attire you can take pride in. two weeks ago, we went shopping, and you were upset when i paid for everything. but i assisted in selecting those items, so please, let me assist in paying for them too. i love you; let me do this for you.
i despise the way you eat – so hastily, so impatiently, as though uncertain when your next meal will come. yet we both know, it will be with me, won’t it ? or do you not wish it to be ? are you rushing through this meal because you are eager for it to end ? i recline and count the grains of rice left in my bowl, attempting to distract myself from my lingering hunger. i delay finishing, hoping to prolong our time together just a little longer, before you leave, and i am left wondering when we shall meet again.
your gaze, that exasperatingly placid gaze, cloaked in the guise of concern, lingers upon me as if to deflect blame. i wonder, do you seethe inwardly, loathing yourself for inflicting harm upon me, or is your affection so intense that my suffering rends you apart? yet no, i recognize this look. it is the same vexing expression my mother bestows when i defy her prescribed path. there it is, disdain veiled thinly, simmering beneath the surface. you despise me – perhaps even more than i find myself resenting you.
i detest the suffocating silence you demand of me when anxiety surges, the cruelty of your words – you called me a stupid bitch when all i sought was the solace of your embrace as i grappled with impending separation. i hate the absence of your voice when i stood beleaguered before your friends, unshielded and vulnerable. i hate the casual malice in your remark, calling me fat in that new, green knitted dress i had hoped would please you. and most of all, i hate the way you allowed your friends to dissect me with their scorn, their words unchallenged by the one person i foolishly believed would stand by me.
i hate that you let your friends touch me. and it vexes me that, in moments of anguish when i wept over it, you embraced me, tended to my distress, and assured me that all would be well. i hate that i am acutely aware that, should we traverse back in time, you would permit him to repeat the transgression.
i failed to grasp it then, but clarity has since emerged: you clung to me like a corroded, misshapen nail embedded in a decrepit wooden bench – repulsive and incongruous, yet inexplicably fitting. my aversion to you was so profound that i acclimated to the fleeting moments of ephemeral kindness you dispensed, clinging to them as if they were my sole nourishment.
“i hate so many things about you” is starting to feel like i know everything about you, and this burgeoning familiarity is starting to feel as though i could spend a lifetime entwined with you. though it seems paradoxical, i find myself compelled to admit, with a depth of feeling i never anticipated:
i hate you., we should get married.
i hate you.,
i do.
